


He Knows

by quietwandering



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24299938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietwandering/pseuds/quietwandering
Summary: My name still conjures up deadly deeds.
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	He Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Boy howdy, it's hard to write these two together in 2020. My first draft I deleted entirely, my second draft I finished but didn't like enough -- I may post it as an unfinished B-side at some point. It was from Moz's perspective, but I just couldn't get it to sound like I wanted. 
> 
> Finally I got to this version, and I'm still not sure I entirely love it. So apologies if I noticeably edit anything out or in.
> 
> Title is [He Knows I'd Love to See Him](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLKfFhXzYTk) by Morrissey.

No matter how many years passed, I’d always been able to sense when Morrissey would need me to come round. I wasn’t entirely sure as to why but sometimes I’d get this feeling that something was just slightly off and within minutes I’d be booking a flight to California, telling Angie I’d be back soon enough.

Knowing the man would never let me in voluntarily, I made a few phone calls when I arrived and was able to let myself into the imposing main gate. I took a long while to go up the drive and marveled at the idea that L.A. could ever be considered home. Then again, I knew being from Manchester could warp someone’s perspective of normality. 

Getting to the door, I knocked incessantly until my disgruntled ex-singer opened it just enough to glare out at me. “There’s a pandemic, I’m sure you heard...and I’m terribly ill. Horrifically so.” I stared on, unimpressed, and waited for a few moments, tilting my head slightly. “Fine. _Fine_ , come in. I’ll make us some tea.” 

I came in and took off my jacket and shoes in the foyer before I sat my bags down by the stairs and made my way into the living room. There was hardly a surface not covered in books and records, boxes of odds and ends, loose photos and notepads. The television was unplugged and had a blanket draped over it which amused me greatly. Being L.A., the mansion had undoubtedly been home to some famous actor, maybe even one I’d recognize given enough time, but was now overcrowded with the idiosyncrasies of a boy I’d coaxed outside in 1982. 

Clearing a space on the couch, I flipped through some of the photos and books to pass the time till Morrissey came shuffling back, expression slightly less severe. “I put two sugars in yours and put those back like they were. I’ve them organized.” 

“Do you?” I asked, laughing. “This place is a proper museum, alright. How’re you? Other than horrifically ill.” 

Morrissey sank down next to me, his spot on the old couch almost molded to him, and looked at his tea for a while. “I’m not sure. As well as ever. As good as can be expected from someone of my ilk. I’ve mostly stayed in. Might go to visit my mother here in a few weeks.” 

“You could’ve told me. Saved me a trip to this hellacious city. I still say Portland is far better,” I groused, downing half my tea. “I’ve a few projects I need to be back in Manchester for soon, but -- I’ll probably stay a week at least.” 

“Well, just make yourself at home,” Morrissey said sullenly before he sat his mug down on the coffee table between a few stacks of books. I momentarily wondered how many other cups were lost among those piles. “Is there a reason for your visit?”

“I just knew you needed me to come by, I guess. You may not reply to my letters, but --” I shifted to press ourselves closer together and reached to gently touch the white wisps of hair on the nape of his neck. “I can somehow still pick up on when I’m needed.” 

Morrissey’s churlish expression is briefly overshadowed with grief, and I feel him lean heavily against me, resting his head on my shoulder. “I apologize. I can never find the right words or the right time.” 

I hold him protectively in my arms and press a kiss to his temple. “No need to be sorry. I love you all the same. I don’t imagine that’ll ever change, Mozza.” 

There’s a slight tremble that passes through him, and I let him cry uninterrupted for a long while. I sing through parts of _Because the Night_ and _Metal Guru_ , humming lines I don’t remember. “I’m sorry. I don’t...I don’t seem to be very good company today...or ever, I suppose. You’ll have to forgive me.” 

The intent of the words isn’t lost on me, but we’ve had that conversation too many times already. “Tell me about your new record. #3 in the UK, huh?” I ask, steering him away from the past. “When’s a single gonna be ready?” 

Morrissey shifts a little in my arms and rests his cheek against the back of the couch. I’m able to see in immense clarity that even in the sixth decade of life he was still strikingly beautiful. Absently, I wipe away the last of his tears and run my sleeve along his nose. “Thank you..and I’m not sure. The press and all. I’m not sure it’d even be played.” 

I laugh and squeeze his shoulder affectionately. “Contrarian as ever. You’re becoming a right old codger, aren’t you?” Moz’s eyes roll in such a familiar way that I can’t help but laugh that bit harder, which he always hated. “Britain First! What an absolute riot.” 

“Bugger off,” Morrissey sighed, pinching my side petulantly. “I’m not about to bend in some...torrent of modern day outrage.” 

“ _And people like you...make me feel so old inside_ \--” 

“Exactly,” Morrissey said with an affirmative huff. I let him win the argument for now and rest my hand back against his cheek, stroking the small lines and wrinkles with my thumb. “I was...quite fond of your latest record, too, Johnny. I’ve a copy upstairs in the bedroom.”

“Oh?” I say, grinning. “Well, I’ve been back in the studio lately. I’d been so busy with the Bond stuff -- hardly had time to write a thing. Hopefully I can get something of my own out again soon. I brought my guitar with me so I’ll definitely play you a bit of what I’ve done.” 

“I’ve not written much lyrically. With the album just out and all. I’d try my hand at fiction again, but -- my ego won’t be able to handle another kicking like that anytime soon. I’ve mostly made notes.”

I mention I’ve been reading Slyvia Plath again just so I can listen to him tell me how dreadfully boring that is and had I read Nancy Friday yet? I feigned ignorance and let him talk for ages about _Women on Top_ \-- he’d read it again recently and still found it marvelous. 

“Oh, you’ve not had dinner yet have you? I’ve a few things of soup I can make us if you’d like, or we can order in. There’s a few vegan places I know that’re delivering now. Isn’t that fantastic?” 

Morrissey was up before I had a chance to respond, and I rubbed tiredly at my jaw for a moment, shaking off the jet lag. “Anything works. I’m sure you’ll know what I want better than me.” I heard a phone call being made in the other room, and my eyes slowly shut to better take in the excited lilt in Moz’s tone. 

I must have unexpectedly dozed off as I found myself awakened to the rich smell of bread and antipasto. Morrissey was next to me, plate untouched in his lap, as he wrote in the margins of a paperback that looked like it was on its last legs. I reached for the fork and began to slowly pick off bites of soy chorizo, leaning closer to see what he was writing. “Oh, apologies. You were asleep, and I’d been busy with this book when you’d dropped by. Do you want to head up to the guest room?” 

“Mm, well. I’ve a much better idea, I think. How about, instead, you take me up to your room?” Moz’s wry smile was infectious, and I couldn’t help but feel glad to have put it there, leaning in to briefly kiss him. “Come on then.” 

I had to haul my own bags up the stairs, the uncourteous bastard, but my arrival into Moz’s room made the entire trip worthwhile. The walls were filled with bookshelves and framed photos of old movie stars with a large comfortable bed sat in the middle. Shunting off most of my clothes, I tossed them onto my bag and wandered around to take in the sights, pausing at the record player. A 45 rpm of Lulu’s _I’m a Tiger_ was still spinning inside. 

The light clicked off as the bed shifted behind me, and I turned to watch Morrissey frantically bury himself beneath the blankets. “Going somewhere?” 

“I had thought I was for a long while, but unfortunately I ended up a pop star.” 

“A handsome one,” I mused, climbing up onto the bottom of the bed. “A real charmer, too.” 

Turning on the bedside lamp, I shifted back the covers and eagerly pressed our mouths together again. There was a strong taste of mint and the underlying flavor all Moz’s own that I was so intimately familiar with after all these years. I let myself get lost in the rhythmic motions of our tongues, creating a music that was all our own.

Without hesitation, I moved our bodies together like they had so many countless times before -- in downtrodden Manchester flats and hotel rooms, in the back of tour vans and in wretched venue bathrooms, wildly drunk in the backseat of my BMW. The years never changed my affection, my devotion, for the painfully shy boy I’d met on Kings Road. 

“ _Johnny_ \-- please. _Please_.” 

I shove at what clothes remain and hungrily drag my mouth along the line of Moz’s shoulder, biting bruises into the pale skin. I want to remind the man of my presence long after I’m gone, have him feel me in my absence, and I want to imprint the taste of his soap, his cologne, his essence on the back of my tongue and in the crevices of my teeth. “Sit up. _Up_ ,” I urged, pushing impatiently into his lap. “Inside...I need you inside me, Mozzer.” 

I twisted my hips against Moz’s own to emphasize this point and was glad to feel his hands slipping up along my thighs, uncertain as ever but fervent. I let my fingers slip between his parted lips, moaning as he pulled the digits between his tongue, and accepted that asking for anything more to help ease the way was a pointless endeavour. 

The ravenous expression on Morrissey’s face was enough to make me desperate, and I couldn’t seem to ready myself fast enough, trying and failing to slow down, to let his eyes take in everything I had to offer. Thankfully, Moz had already seen me from about every angle and state of dress imaginable so I wasn’t too overly worried about rushing things. 

Once I was able, I wrapped my arms around Morrissey’s neck to steady myself and rocked down a few times till the other man was able to press himself inside, sighing contentedly at the sudden stretch and ache. “I’ve not...since last time. Jake came round, but I couldn’t bring myself --”

“That’s alright. It’s okay.” I wasn’t exactly sure of either of those things, but I knew that was what Morrissey needed to hear -- and that’s what mattered to me. Outside this bed, this room, was where all the other concerns could stay for now. “Want me to…?” 

I rolled my hips to ask if I should be the one to keep us in motion, and Morrissey nodded into my shoulder, kissing back up along my neck. The sex between us was always immense, always unparalleled, and I felt this time round would be just as momentous. Shifting, I grabbed at the headboard for better support as I fucked myself into a near frenzy, wishing for something more than saliva so I could lessen the friction. 

The gasp against my ear clued me in that this would be over soon, and I reached between us to frantically try and catch up, thumbing under the tip of my cock. “Yeah? You gonna come for me, Steven? You want to?” 

A desperate noise had me pressing our lips back together greedily, my unoccupied hand cupping along Moz’s jaw. “Johnny, I think -- I don’t think I can…” 

The words are hardly out as I feel Moz tense, and I shiver at the feel of him releasing inside me. My head slowly tilts back in ecstasy, breathless, as I pull myself towards climax. I feel Morrissey’s fingers intertwine with my own and buck fiercely at the added tightness, undignified noises escaping from me as I’m finally able to come. 

Our bodies sink towards the mattress, still entwined, and I can’t help but laugh as I feel Morrissey rubbing the mess off on the sheets. “That’ll be your side of the bed then,” I say airily, rolling onto my back. “Though with the state of my arse I doubt any part of these sheets are going to be clean for long.” 

“Do you not have a sense of romance, Johnny Marr? _Must_ you be so crass?” 

“Says the man enthusing to me hours ago about how a book on female masturbation really got him going.” My smirk is a mile wide, and I kiss back reverently as Moz takes a moment to reprimand me with his mouth. “Though...I’m certainly not opposed to you tying me down.”

**Author's Note:**

> (For those who want a laugh, here's Nancy Friday's [Women on Top](https://www.academia.edu/20204163/Women_On_Top). Moz mentions liking her in the book 'Morrissey in Conversation' and in Autobiography)


End file.
